Martine gave me my third charm. A silver pendant in the shape of a solar disc, which I easily adapted to my bracelet. By then I had the beginnings of a collection, and for every life I’ve collected since, I’ve added a new ornament. It’s a small vanity that I allow myself – a reminder of how far I’ve come.

I burnt my mother’s passport, of course. Quite apart from the unpleasant memories it brought back, it was far too incriminating for me to do otherwise. But that was my first recorded success, and if it taught me one thing, it’s this. There’s no room for nostalgia when lives are at stake.

Since then, their ghosts have pursued me in vain. Spirits can only move in straight lines (or so the Chinese believe), and the Butte de Montmartre is an ideal refuge with its steps and stairways and little winding streets, through which no phantom could find its way.

At least, that’s what I’m hoping. Once again last night’s evening paper showed a picture of Françoise Lavery. The picture was enhanced, perhaps; in any case it looks less grainy, although it still bears little resemblance to Zozie de l’Alba.

Enquiries, however, have since revealed that the ‘real’ Françoise died some time last year, in circumstances that now seem suspicious. Clinically depressed after her boyfriend left her, she died of an overdose that was judged accidental, but which may of course have been otherwise. Her flatmate, a girl by the name of Mercedes Desmoines, vanished soon after Françoise’s death, but she’d been gone for quite a long time before anyone suspected foul play.

Well, you know. There’s no helping some people. And really, I’d thought better of her. Those mousy types can often show unexpected inner strength – though not in her case. Poor Françoise.

Still, I don’t miss her. I like being Zozie. Everyone likes Zozie, of course – she is so much herself, you see – she doesn’t care what anyone thinks. So different from Miss Lavery that you could sit next to her on the Métro and never even see a hint of resemblance.

Still, just to be sure, I’ve dyed my hair. Black hair suits me, anyway. It makes me look French – or perhaps Italian – gives my skin a pearly quality and emphasizes the colour of my eyes. It’s a good look for who I am now – and it doesn’t hurt that men like it, too.

Passing the artists huddled beneath their umbrellas on the rainy Place du Tertre, I waved at Jean-Louis, who greeted me in his usual style.

‘Hey, it’s you!’

‘You never give up, do you?’ I said.

He grinned. ‘Would you? You’re gorgeous today. How about a quick profile? It’d look nice on the wall of your chocolate shop.’